Just one day

I’d like to walk into my therapist office

or rather up to him as he approaches through

the very living room-ish archway that leads

or merely meanders into his waiting room

and see on his sort of gaunt face the look

that comes with sheer surprise

but so far he’s bested me at being


I’ve entered his building in all manner of dress

from full on pirate garb

all of it actual clothing mind you

no wearer of costumes am I

to a near full set of leather armor

riveted together and concealing

the fragility of my form beneath it

I’ve come in leather jackets, biker style

with hair done back in a bandana

black jeans and boots to match

I’ve sauntered up to him in

“damned-near pajamas”

but he always just looks at me

with those cool fatherly eyes

and smiles

and never once has he brought to

attention some article of

extreme fashion that I’ve bore

without ME FIRST

pointing it out

like a child, eager to show off

a pair of shiny new sneakers

to a teacher who has surpassed caring

and only sees before him the student

or in my case, the patient

eager to work on myself

eager to learn

and maybe one day shed myself

of such abstract renditions of

reinventions of my identity

he said one thing on the  subject:

that I was reclaiming myself, my form, my body

from a version of me once stunted and stolen

and: as always, if it makes me comfortable

then there is no harm

in literally wearing armor




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